


Bloody Hands and Breaking Hearts (Whumptober 2020 Day 6)

by Jadelyn



Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Could be read either way, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Geralt's self-esteem issues, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whumptober 2020, no beta we die like jaskier doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: Jaskier is injured by a creature in the woods, a thorn embedded in his chest and working its way toward his heart.  Geralt does what he must to save hisfriendbard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953790
Comments: 12
Kudos: 230





	Bloody Hands and Breaking Hearts (Whumptober 2020 Day 6)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: No 6. PLEASE....  
> "Get it Out" | No More | "Stop, please"
> 
> Please note the description of the wound and the process of extracting the thorn are fairly graphic and heavy on the blood and screaming.

The scream rent the air.

Geralt's heart stopped. Time stood still as he spun around just in time to watch Jaskier stagger back and crumple to the ground.

Acting on pure instinct, he turned back to the strange plant-monster, hand flung out in igni before he'd even finished the turn. The searing blast that engulfed the creature an instant later would've done even Eskel proud.

He didn't give a damn about that. Jaskier was on the ground, still screaming in such agony that Geralt could still hear him even over the dying howls of the creature.

Or maybe he was just particularly attuned to the sound of Jaskier's distress after years of practice and -

_Don't say love, don't say love. You don't love him. You can't love him. Witchers don't love._

Somehow Geralt was across the clearing and kneeling at Jaskier's side with no memory of choosing to go to him. By the flickering light of his conjured blaze as it finished ravaging the monster's vegetal corpse, Geralt could see the steadily spreading blotch of red adorning the shirt over Jaskier's ribs.

_Ruining the fabric just like Geralt always ruined everything around him, blood on his hands staining everything he touched no matter how careful he tried to be._

Another awful scream tore itself free of the bard's throat. He clutched at the wound and curled around it, muscles twitching helplessly as he convulsed.

Geralt forced him onto his back and pried those lovely, long-fingered hands away from the wound. "I'm sorry, Jaskier," he said helplessly as Jaskier struggled mindlessly against his grip. "I have to -"

_Make it worse, cause you even more pain because that's all I'm good for._

"- see how bad it is so I know how to help."

The screaming faded to whimpers. Jaskier stilled. Sky-blue eyes gazed up at him with such pure trust that Geralt flinched.

_Stop trusting me so fucking much, you idiot, stop putting yourself in a monster's hands like you know they can't break you._

He tore the ruined fabric away to bare Jaskier’s torso and flinched again, harder this time, when he caught sight of the wound. A narrow puncture angled into Jaskier's skin, just over and between two ribs, where a flung - spat? What did one call it when a nonsentient but actively malicious plant-monster could detach parts of its anatomy to use as a distance weapon? - thorn the length of Geralt's hand had struck and buried itself in Jaskier's flesh.

It had struck with enough force that the thorn was fully embedded, no part sticking out to be grasped and extracted. Geralt could see the shadow of it under Jaskier's skin and began calculating where to cut to widen the wound enough to reach the thorn and pull it out while still minimizing the pain. He'd carry Jaskier back to the village first, where he could at least make an attempt to sterilize things first and make him as comfortable as possible both before and after…

The shadow under Jaskier's skin _moved_.

_What the fuck?_

Jaskier screamed again, hands flying back to the wound and scrabbling desperately at it even as Geralt fought to keep him from doing himself further harm in his terror.

"Get it out!" Jaskier cried. "Fuck, get it out, get it out, please -" A wordless howl of agony swallowed his voice as the thing twitched inside him again.

It was _burrowing_ , Geralt realized with sick horror, trying to get deeper. Which meant there was no time to get back to the village, no time for clean hands and sterile blades and a comfortable bed. It had to come out _now_ , before it had a chance to dig its way between Jaskier's ribs to reach his lungs and heart.

Before it had time to kill him.

"All right, Jaskier," Geralt said, trying to sound firm and confident and not like a man panicking while he watched his -

_Just a friend, just that, not even that maybe. Just someone he knows. Just someone who makes the endless days bearable, just someone whose presence is an undeserved gift that brings light and warmth and sometimes even happiness to ease the bleak existence a mutant like him deserves._

\- friend slowly dying in his arms. "It'll be all right. I'll get it out. But it's going to hurt."

Jaskier choked on something like a laugh. "You say that like it…doesn't already hurt."

Geralt shot the injured bard an incredulous look. “Now? Right now is when you’re making jokes about it?”

_Please never stop._

“I’m a firm believer that moments like these -” Jaskier broke off with a strangled cry, gritting his teeth to try to stifle it, “- are when we need jokes the most.”

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt muttered, tearing off his gloves.

_But you’re my idiot._

He wiped one off as best he could, making sure that it at least had no remnants of potions or ichor on it, and shoved it between Jaskier’s teeth.

“Mmmmph!” Jaskier reached up and yanked it out. “What the fuck, Geralt?”

“You’ll need something to bite down on.”

“What?” Jaskier looked panicked. “Why? I don’t need anything now, are you trying to tell me it’s going to get worse when you take it out?”

Geralt reached for the dagger in his boot. “The entry point is too narrow to reach in and grab it. I’m going to have to widen it enough to get in there.”

Jaskier’s eyes went huge as he stared at the dagger. “Oh,” he said faintly. “You’re...oh.” Without further comment he put the glove back between his teeth and bit down, just as the thorn shivered under his skin and provoked a fresh, though this time muffled, scream.

“Jaskier, I -” Geralt broke off for a moment, then forced himself to keep going. “I’m going to have to hold you down. If you move at the wrong moment then the thorn could wind up being the least of our problems.”

_I know it’s terrifying, being held down by a witcher, please don’t be afraid, Jaskier. Not of me. Please._

But Jaskier only nodded, shuddering at another movement from the thing embedded in him, and offered his hands in clear question: how do you want me? He went easily as Geralt moved him, straddling Jaskier’s waist so he could use his weight to keep the lower half pinned, crossing his wrists above his head and clamping a hand down over them.

For a moment, Geralt stared down at his - _friend_ \- bard, feeling sick to his stomach at what he was about to do.

And then the thing moved again, the shadow of it growing fainter at the surface of the skin as it burrowed deeper, and there was no more time.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and brought the edge of the blade to the opening of the wound.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me for this._

Jaskier thrashed under him in mindless, instinctive panic as the dagger bit in and flesh parted beneath it.

_He’s not trying to get away from you, he’s just trying to get away from the pain._

Bile rose in the back of Geralt’s throat and burned him anyway. He handled the dagger carefully, not wanting to slip and cut too deep but not wanting to have to go back over it again either. He kept Jaskier still despite the man’s best efforts, terrified of what might happen if he moved too much. For once Geralt found himself grateful for the enhanced strength he’d been given, at least it could be useful to help Jaskier like this -

_But if you weren’t what you are, he wouldn’t even be in this situation and need your help at all. How can you be grateful for the thing that got him into trouble, just because it might also be able to get him out of it?_

The thorn was in near-constant motion by then, wriggling madly, trying to get to its goal and kill its prey. Jaskier’s screams, even muffled as they were, split the air until they were all Geralt could hear. In between the raw exposed flesh and the welling blood a chunk of purple-streaked green was visible. Good enough.

Geralt tossed the dagger aside and plunged his fingers into the wound, desperately seeking to grasp the fucking thing. He felt it, gripped it; his grip slid off, blood slippery between his fingertips.

Jaskier howled, bucking under him almost hard enough to throw him off, and spat out the glove. Geralt had to tighten his grip on Jaskier’s wrists, clamp his knees tighter around Jaskier’s hips, knowing there would be bruises the next day in the shape of his hands, his thighs. “Stop,” Jaskier wailed, his voice turning rough and raw from screaming. “Stop, please, no more, Geralt please, I can’t -”

_Neither can I. Because if I stop now, you’ll die. Better you be alive to hate me for this, than dead because I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you in order to save your life._

Geralt felt the edge of the thorn under his fingers again and dug into it hard, nails cutting into it - hopefully only it, and not catching any of Jaskier’s torn flesh along with it - and began to pull it back, trying to keep to the same angle it had gone in at to minimize the additional damage. The thing writhed in his hold, still fighting, still trying to fulfill its purpose. It felt almost like a battle of wills, then - his will to save his friend against the thing’s will to kill its prey.

_No. Not Jaskier. You can’t have him. I won’t let you._

And then it was out, sliding free with an awful sucking sound. Geralt threw it aside and let Jaskier’s wrists go, standing and whistling for Roach, who he knew was waiting nearby as always.

By the time he’d dug out cloth for bandages and returned to Jaskier’s side, the screaming had stopped. Jaskier lay nearly motionless, save for the jerky rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His eyes fluttered open as Geralt knelt beside him again, and as he pressed the wadded-up cloth over the wound Geralt noticed that Jaskier’s face was wet with tears, sending another stab of guilt through him.

Jaskier let out a stifled grunt at the pressure of cloth over raw nerves, but didn’t move away. Rather, he lifted a hand and reached for Geralt’s face. Geralt had no idea what he was meant to do with this, so he simply held still and allowed it, eyes flicking between Jaskier’s face and the injury beneath his hands.

It wasn’t until Jaskier’s fingers brushed over his cheekbone that Geralt realized his own face was wet with something other than blood, too.

“Never…seen you…cry,” Jaskier said hoarsely. “Didn’t know you…could.”

“Hmm.” _Me, neither._ “Hold this,” he instructed, taking Jaskier’s hands and moving them to keep the cloth pad in place while he tied another strip of cloth to keep it there. It would do until they got back to town and he could stitch it up properly - he’d had to cut into Jaskier right away to remove the thorn, but he wasn’t going to take further risks of infection by stitching him up without the ability to properly clean the wound first. “Stay,” he said, unnecessarily, as he got up to collect his sword and dagger. He left the monster - he could come back and get proof of death later. It wasn’t worth delaying caring for Jaskier just for that.

“Aw,” Jaskier said, then coughed and whimpered a little. “But I had dinner date plans. Are you telling me I have to cancel?”

Geralt snorted. “I’ll get you dinner when we get back to the inn.” He didn’t think about how that sounded until after the words were out.

Jaskier giggled. “Then I guess I don’t have to cancel after all.”

_Was he implying…? No, he was probably just silly with blood loss._

“Hm.”

* * *

Geralt did, in fact, get food sent up for them back at the inn. Jaskier had dozed off on the ride back and - thankfully, but also worryingly - stayed passed out while Geralt carried him to their room, cleaned his wound, stitched it, and bandaged it properly, so Geralt had to wake him enough to eat a little. He fell right back asleep, though, which was probably for the best given the amount of pain he’d be in if he were awake.

Once he was sure the bard was sleeping easily and naturally - not slipping into a coma he wouldn’t wake from - Geralt settled onto the floor beside the bed and dropped into a light meditation. He didn’t want to go too far, in case Jaskier’s condition changed or he woke in the night and needed something.

It was surprisingly hard to clear his mind, though. He kept thinking back to the events of the evening. The initial scream. The blood pouring from Jaskier’s side, soaking his clothes. The begging, first to get it out and then to stop, and Geralt only able to grant one of those things. The tears on Jaskier’s face - and the discovery of the same on his own face. The fact that he’d had the knowledge and the skills necessary to save Jaskier’s life…but that the only reason Jaskier’s life had been in danger was because of Geralt’s presence in the first place.

He roused before dawn and quietly packed his things. He’d leave money for the room, and ask the innkeep to have a healer look in on Jaskier to make sure he continued to recover well, but it would be safer for the both of them if he left.

And it would be easier to leave while Jaskier was asleep.

_If he looks at me and asks me to stay, I’m not sure I’ll be able to say no._

Better to leave before Jaskier woke, then.

* * *

“Where are you going?”

Jaskier’s voice was quiet, rough with the aftermath of sleep and the rawness left from his screams the night before, but it went through Geralt like a lightning bolt.

There was no comforting lie he could tell, not when he had his saddlebags in hand and armor on, swords slung across his back already. No way he could convince Jaskier to just go back to sleep while Geralt went to check on Roach or something equally plausible but presumably temporary.

“You’ll be safer without me.” He didn’t turn around. Didn’t dare meet those blue eyes, not now.

“What? Geralt, you saved my life last night. How could I possibly be any safer than I am with you?”

“Your life only needed saving because you were with me,” Geralt growled. “Better you should avoid needing saved in the first place than rely on me to save you.”

"Stay, Geralt. Please."

"I shouldn't. You'd be better off if I -"

"I don't care about that. I've never cared about that. I just want this - what we have. Risks and pain and scars and all."

Geralt hesitated, hand hovering over the door handle. He shouldn't. Jaskier would be safer without him dragging the bard into danger.

"Please don't go."

_No one has ever wanted me to stay before._

"Geralt? Please. Please, stay."

So he stayed.


End file.
